The Rain, The Storms and Other Things

I like storms, you know I do,

Even when they’re scary, true!

But just as much, I like to joke,

So here’s a few for all you folks . . .

What’s a king's preferred deluge?

I’ll tell you: It is ‘Hail’!

While a queen’s fav-ou-rite would be ‘reign’.

She measures on a scale.

I knew it’d rain some money now,

They forecast weather ‘changes’,

A horse reins up or sleet rains down

Though both are on the ranges.

When it’s raining ducks and chicks,

You know the weather’s ‘fowl’!

A dangerous deluge is called?

‘Rain’ o’ terror. Grab a towel!

How’s Santa work in thunderstorms?

He has a ‘rain’deer team,

What’s a wet bear called, you know?

A ‘drizzly’ bear, it seems.

What’s worse than raining buckets? Well,

It’s ‘hailing taxis’. Yes.

And what do you call a month of rain?

Umm…England, I would guess.

Said one drop to his buddy:

Two’s comp’ny, three's a cloud,

Before it starts raining candy, well,

It ‘sprinkles’. Bet it’s loud.

What goes up when rain comes down?

A parasol. Oh, brother!

How do lightning bolts flirt—Ha!

They electro-cute each other.

In Seattle, two straight days of rain?

A weekend. (What a flop!)

One drop to the other? My plop’s

Bigger than your plop.

I’ll not inflict you further, friends,

(My grandkids thought these fun,)

Before I start some more

I think you all had better run!

Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought,

To try to make the week begin

With pleasant thoughts--perhaps a grin?

So all of us together, we,

Have posted poems for you to see.

Now go and see what they have done

I'm sure it will be lots of fun!

Jenny

Delores

MotherOwl

Mimi

And now you've seen what we have brought . . .

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Life on the Ranch

I'm back!
I've missed you. And I've missed this.
Maybe a little explanation is in order . . .
For six years, I've been plagued by headaches. And, sadly, sitting and working on the computer compounded them terribly.
My solution? Spend less and less time before the screen. It didn't eliminate the wretched, blinding headaches, but it did reduce them somewhat.
Enter a friend.
And a bottle of magic pills.
Now you have to know that, by this time, skepticism was my middle name.
I had tried every pain-relieving drug I could find.
I dutifully opened the bottle and swallowed what would probably be the next in a long line of nexts.
Imagine my surprise. The first one . . . worked!
And the next day, the second. Then, the third. And so on.
Headache free for three weeks now, I am cautiously optimistic.
And very, very excited!
And very, very happy to be back on my blog . . . typing madly.
So today, I'll start where I started ten years ago. With my very first blog post/introduction to me.
I love you all! Thank you for standing by me!
Diane

The new barn

My big brother and me.
I'm the one in the dress...

I was privileged to grow up on one of the last of the large old ranches in Southern Alberta. Situated halfway between the towns of Milk River and Del Bonita, it covered two-and-a-half townships, close to 92 square miles. 

Our closest neighbour was over nine miles away. 

A little far to drop by to borrow a cup of sugar, but close enough to help in the case of a real emergency, which was not uncommon on the large spread we ran, and with the number of people involved in the daily workings.
The ranch buildings themselves were nestled snugly in a bend of the South Fork of the Milk River. 

Towering cliffs surrounded us. Cliffs which were home, at times, to a pair of blue herons, and at all others, to marmots, badgers, porcupines, and a very prolific flock of mud swallows. 

We learned to swim in that river. 

We tobogganed down the gentler slopes of those cliffs. 

We built dams and caught frogs and snakes. 

I even trapped a full-grown jackrabbit – almost.
It was an unusual life, as I have now come to know. 

At the time, it was normal. 

We thought everyone lived like we did. Far from any outside influences. Relying on each other. Immersed in the needs of the family and the ranch. 

For a child growing up, it was peace itself.

The Ranch

P.S. Most of the buildings are gone now, burned in the terrible grass fires of 2012. But they remain solid and real in my memories.

Job Expedition

Our little group straggled across the courtyard after our (hopefully) future boss, Steven.

He turned and looked behind at us. “Forward all!” he said. “And please try and keep together, people. This is a big place and for the first while especially, it’s pretty easy to find oneself lost.”

Sally and I snickered a bit at that. Well, she did. I was trying to make a good impression.

“Now over here, we have the pub. Notice how it’s situated just inside the great city gates. This is largely for convenience. People stopping briefly for refreshment didn’t have to navigate the entire town to call in for a pint. And didn’t further clog up the streets thereby.” He pointed. “You can see how narrow and twisting they are.”

“Like our drains,” Sally said.

“Beg pardon?” She had his attention.

“Well, you know. They’re all narrow and twisting and when you put things . . . well . . . things other than . . . you know. . . water down the drain and they plug up. And nothing is getting down there. And you have to get the plunger. And your mom has a fit and starts quoting plumbing costs. Like that.”

Everyone had stopped and were staring at her.

“Erm. Yes,” our guide said, doubtfully. “Mayhap that could happen.” He turned slowly and, his eyes still glancing back from time to time at Sally, pointed upward. “Now if you were to follow my finger, thus, you will notice . . .”

“He talks funny,” Sally said.

 “Shhh!” I whispered elbowing her.

For the next few minutes he led us past barracks, shops, tiny stone houses and at least one church. Sally was, thankfully, silent.

Finally, he steered us through a wide, stone archway and up a steep set of stairs. “Please stay close for this next part, people.” He gave Sally a particularly direct stare. “It will be even easier to get disoriented. From here on in, we have an extra dimension to concern ourselves with.”

“Huh?” Sally hadn’t followed.

“You know. Lose your orientation . . .” I began.

“We don’t just have around and around to think about,” Steven clarified. “We have up and down, as well.”

Oops. Need I point out just how good Sally is with ‘down’?

“Now through this corridor, we come to the entryway to the battlements.”

“Oooh! Cannons and stuff!” Sally exclaimed.

I shivered. I’m not sure why. I suppose because . . . Sally.

“Erm. Yes. We have a particularly fine collection of old cannon here at Bonemeade Castle.”

I smiled a little. Poor Steven didn’t know that we had just added one more to the collection because Sally was a bit of a ‘loose cannon’ herself.

We walked out onto an open area. Around the edges were low stone walls, each divided by several openings. From every opening protruded a large, gleaming cannon.

Of course all we could see were their backsides. But it was enough to elicit an enthusiastic “Cool!” from Sally.

Again, I shivered.

To one side was a long, stone ramp and at the top of that ramp, two more huge cannon.

My eyes were drawn there for some reason. Probably because that was the direction Sally had taken.

My sister bounded up the slope and I watched in dreadful fascination. Have you known you were about to witness a disaster, and that you simply had no chance to do anything about it?

Yeah. That.

Why, oh why did I imagine I could bring my sister to a job interview and hope to succeed?

Inevitably, only a few seconds later, one of the cannon started sliding backward down the slope. Because of course it would.

Huh. Loose Cannon meets loose cannon. Who’da thought?

People scrambled out of the way as the 4-ton behemoth rumbled along, picking up speed.

It hit the flat surface with a great thump, then slowly rolled to a stop.

Sally was staring at it. “I don’t know what happened. I just touched it!”

I released the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

Steven, ashen-faced, started walking slowly toward it. “That’s been up there, safely anchored for two centuries,” he gasped out. He wiped a suddenly beaded brow. “Thank the Lord no one was hurt!”

He pulled out his radio with shaking hands and spoke into it. “Martha? Yeah, Steven here with the job applicants. There’s been a bit of an incident on the battlement tower. No one injured, thankfully, but . . . ummm . . . could you track down someone with a crane? Oh, and Martha? Could you please send someone to replace me? I need to find a laundry.”

He turned to us. “Someone else will finish your tour. Please excuse me.”

As he started to walk away, he turned suddenly to me. “Gwen, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

“Do you and your sister come as a package deal? Yes or no.”

I stared at him. “Ummm . . . Which answer will get me the job?”

Use Your Words is a writing challenge. This is how it works: participating bloggers pick 4 - 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post. All the words must be used at least once and all the posts are unique as each writer has received their own set of words. That's the challenge, here's a fun twist; no one who's participating knows who got their words and in what directions the writer will take them until the day and time that we all simultaneously publish our work.

My words this month: pint ~ call ~ forward ~ loose cannon ~ orientation ~ laundry came to me from my friend Jenniy at Climaxed.

Want some more fun? Go and see what the other challengers have wrought!

Wandering Web Designer
Cognitive Script
The Bergham Chronicles
Bookworm in the Kitchen
Part-time Working Hockey Mom
Follow me home
Climaxed

Some R Bashed

I had the grandkids here today,

I thought ‘twould be a time for play,

The water slide enticed them first,

Until the garden hose just…burst,

They roamed about the pirate ship,

Then Willow fell and split her lip.

Foam swords in hand they crossed the 'heath',

Till William got one in the teeth,

Then Lizbeth missed the climbing frame,

And Leah got all of the blame,

Hazel, Bronwyn, Linney, too,

Lost the tug-o-war, got soaked through,

Emma stood and watched, amazed,

While all her cousins acted crazed…

Quincy, thankfully too small,

To get her small self smashed at all,

And all the older cousins, too,

Too wise to wade into the zoo!

It’s peaceful now, they’ve all gone home,

No more as pirates do they roam,
Some were bruised, some bloodied, too,
With all the antics they got through,

And I've learned with all this balderdash,

Just what is meant by ‘Summer Bash’!

We friends of Karen happ'ly meet,

To rhyme with words. A challenge greet,

So while you're on the 'net today,

Stop by and see what our friends say! 

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Summer Bash

Dawn of Spatulas On Parade: Summer Bash Pizza Style

Lydia of Cluttered Genius: Summer’s a Bash

Off Day Off

“Gwen, you’re home! Hon, could you please bring me a coaster?”

“Sure, Mom!” I quickly shed my jacket and hung it on a hook by the front door. Then hurried to the kitchen to grab a little circle of leather from the heap in the basket on the cupboard.

The sunlight was spilling through the large picture window in the front room as I walked in, catching my mom and her recliner in a great shaft of light that turned her skin to gleaming gold and her light hair to silver. I smiled. For just a moment, she became something more than Emma Hart. Single Mom to two teenaged girls and newest Assistant General Manager of Sewel International. Department of Accounting.

For a moment, she looked like what she really was.

Amazing.

She lifted her cup. “Here, dear.”

I set the coaster on the small table beside her and she set her tea on it. Then sighed and sat back. “I could get used to this. I could really get used to this!” She smiled. “Pottering in the garden all morning. Sitting with my feet up and a cup of tea at my elbow all afternoon. Just . . . watching.”

“You’ve earned it, Mom,” I told her. “You worked a lot of years at the bottom. Now you’ve finally risen to the top and you get to call the shots.”

“And have a day off now and then.” She lifted her phone from her lap. “And maybe use the time to figure out this new iPhone.”

“Don’t push it, Mom. This is your first day off!”

She laughed. “Imagine being able to use the word ‘first’ in front of ‘day off’! Like there was going to be more than one!”

I turned to go back into the kitchen. “Well get used to it.” I stopped as something outside caught my eye.

“What is it?” Mom asked.

“Ummm . . .”

“Gwen?” She leaned forward to see past me.

A dusty and dented Volvo was coasting down the street, obviously driverless and picking up speed. Standing with her upper body sticking out of the sunroof was my sister, her arms in the air.

“Wheeee! This. Is. Aaaawesooooome!” she squealed as she sped past our window.

Behind her, long, skinny legs pumping as he struggled in vain to catch his runaway vehicle was the freckle-faced love-of-her-life, Mort. “Saaaaalleeeeee! Put on the brake! Put on the braaaaake!”

I looked at mom.

She settled back in her recliner and, lifting her cup, took a sip of sweet tea.

Once a month, Karen of Baking in a Tornado gathers words from her varied and wondrous group of friends. Then redistributes and issues a challenge.  You get to witness the results--as varied and wondrous as those same friends.

My words this month jacket ~ iPhone ~ coaster ~ sweet tea ~ recliner came from my very good friend, Rena, of Wandering Web Designer.

Thank you so much, Rena! 

Now continue the fun.

See what the others have created...

Wandering Web Designer

Cognitive Script

The Bergham Chronicles

On the Border

Southern Belle Charm

Bookworm in the Kitchen

Follow Me Home

Part-time Working Hockey Mom

Climaxed

Love 'em or Hate 'em

I bless the longer summer days, the heavens filled with light,

The glorious, golden evenings that stretch far into the night.

And having sunshine join me on my early morning walks,

Watch shadows flee from yards and streets as I traverse the blocks.

I bless the longer days, and yet, there is another side,

And reasons that some other folks the longer days deride,

I live north, but further north, another side you see,

That’s witnessed by those ‘northern’ folks who live so far from me.

For them, these longer days are much, much longer than what’s here,

In fact, that big ol’ sun will never ever disappear.

Just circles quietly around, ‘bout halfway up the sky,

And causes consternation by this general act thereby.

The people living there cannot depend upon the sun,

And must consult with clocks and things to tell when day is done.

But there’s another reason summer fills the folks with dread

Cause in the summer, children never, ever go to bed!

I love poetry, you know, it really makes me grin,

And once a month, I'm blessed to have my Karen count me in.

And with her other friends, we craft some poems on a theme,

So why not skip across and read from others on my team!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: Longer Days
Dawn of Cognitive Script: Longer Days

Lydia of Cluttered Genius: The days are long

Uh-Oh

“Nope. I’ve made up my mind. There’s no changing it!”

Mom and Sally were having a discussion in the kitchen.

Too often in the past, I had been front and center in their ‘discussions’. I knew how 99% of them ended.

This time I had gotten smart. I was hiding out in the living room, pretending to take in the view of our quiet street from the picture window. A dusty old grey Volvo went slowly past and turned into the alleyway just down the street.

“But, Honey. I simply don’t know . . .”

“Nope.” Sally was firm about whatever they were discussing.

“Well . . . if that’s how you really feel . . .” Mom’s voice went up in volume a notch. “Gwen? Sally won’t be needing this turkey-bacon! I guess you can have it!”

“What? No she can’t! Give that back!”

Mom went on. “I’m sure we can find vegetables enough to keep you going. I’ll have to stock up on other things you will need…”

“Vegetables?”

“Yes, Sweetheart. Vegetables. Vegans eat a lot of them. If you intend to start following a vegan diet you will have to do the same.”

“What?”

There was another silence and I could just picture Mom staring at my sister with that funny little crease between her eyebrows. I call it ‘Sally’s Crease’.

Because . . . Sally.

“Sally, just what did you think being Vegan meant?”

“Anti-vegetable.”

Mom laughed. “Anti-vegetable?”

“Well, Vegetable-anti, if you insist on being letter perfect. ‘Veg-an’ for short.”

I rolled my eyes. Why was I not the least surprised?

Mom laughed again.

“Mo-om!”

This was getting better and better.  I leaned my head against the warm glass and listened harder.

Outside, I vaguely registered that the same Volvo was driving slowly past from the opposite direction. At least I thought it was the same. No way there could be two with the same dents.

And dust.

“See those Brussels sprouts?” Mom asked.

“Ye-ah.”

“Well get used to them because they’ll form a big part of your new diet.”

“Gross.”

“Um-hmm. And the asparagus you detest? And anything else green? Or red? Or orange? Yep. Learn to like them because they will be your bread and butter. So to speak.”

“I didn’t know . . .”

“And forget the thick cream milkshakes. Or your favourite scrambled eggs in the morning. I understand there are some great substitutes that taste good, but . . .”

“Stop. Just stop. I only wanted a diet where I didn’t have to eat vegetables. That eggplant yesterday was like chewing on an old cotton rag!”

“Well, thanks a lot!” Mom sounded indignant.

“Is there such a diet?”

“No vegetables whatsoever? Yes. I think it’s called the “I-don’t-want-to-be-healthy-ever-again’ diet.”

Sally snorted and stomped out of the kitchen and into the living room. She spotted me and moved closer. “Did you know that vegans eat mostly vegetables?” she demanded.

I nodded. “Yep. No animals or animal products.”

“But I thought it meant . . .”

“No vegetables. I heard.”

Sally sighed and slumped back against the wall, her face a picture of disgust and/or discouragement. “I thought I had it!” she murmured mostly to herself.

“There it is again!” I said. I turned to look at her. “You know, that’s weird?”

“What.”

“There’s an old grey Volvo that’s been driving back and forth past here for the last 15 minutes.”

Sally straightened. “Really? An old grey car, you say?”

“Yep.”

“How old? How grey?”

I frowned. “Well on a scale of one to ten, I’d guess it was . . . old. And grey! Sheesh! How am I supposed to measure? There’s a big dent in the passenger side …”

Sally bolted to the door. “See you when I see you!”

“Sally! I made you a bag of carrot sticks and celery!” Mom emerged from the kitchen holding up a plastic bag.

“Ugh. Gross!” Sally wrenched open the door and hurried through it.

Mom smiled. “I guess that was the final, crooked nail in Veganism’s coffin.”

I didn’t answer. I was riveted to the scene outside.

Sally ran into the street just as the old Volvo made yet another pass. The car stopped abruptly. A young man opened the door and jumped out, a big smile on his freckled face.

The car began to roll slowly forward.

The young man leaped back inside and the car again jerked to a halt. Sally moved closer and leaned in to kiss him somewhere in the vicinity of his ear.

“I think we have bigger fish to fry,” I said over my shoulder.

“What’s that, dear?”

“Brace yourself. We’ve just entered a new trajectory.”

“What are you talking about?” Mom joined me at the window.

I put a hand on her shoulder. “I think Sally’s in love!”

12 times a year, the Friends of Karen submit words.

Those same words are then distributed to other Friends of Karen for subtle and effective story crafting.

The result is the Use Your Words word challenge.

Clever, right?

My words this month were: cotton ~ vegan ~ turkey-bacon ~ alleyway ~ Volvo

And were submitted by my good friend and fellow writer, Michelle at  https://followmehome.shellybean.com!

Thanks for the great words, Michelle! And Sally thanks you, too! ;)

Now go and see what the other members of our Monthly Word Challenge have wrought!

Wandering Web Designer 

Cognitive Script
The Bergham Chronicles  
Follow Me Home 
The Crazy Mama Llama
Climaxed  
Southern Belle Charm
Bookworm in the Kitchen 
Stacy Sews and Schools  

My Mayday

When new engaged, my man and me, the toughest thing for us,

Was trying to decide a date. We’d much to be discussed.

“All girls hope for June,” he said. “And you must want it, too.”

I shrugged cause what I looked for was the whole thing to be through.

Then dad, a man direct and kind, took both of us aside,

“You know you want to marry and to be a groom and bride,

“And June is months away. You, each, the other one adores,

“You know you want to marry, what th’hell you waiting for?”

We blinked. Then saw he had a point, my wise and forthright Pa,

“What are we waiting for?” he asked. (Dad’s future son-in-law.)

And so we moved the wedding up by eight and forty days,

To May the first, in point of fact. Or May-Day, to rephrase.

And here’s the funny part because my goofy, Charming Prince...

I hope it’s love, but he has hollered ‘Mayday’! ever since.

Each month, our Karen and her team
We all write poems on a theme,
And now, you see, it's up to you
To go and read the others, too!

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: May Day, Mayday

Dawn of Cognitive Script: May Day

Doing the Dishes

“Wow! With the $50.00 you gave me, this makes $75.00!”

Say what you will about Sally, she can add.

Maybe a bit of background . . .

It was Sally’s birthday.

Sixteen.

For one month of the year, we are the same age. Irish twins, people call us.

Whatever that means.

I think it has something to do with annoying because for that one month, Sally never lets up that we are the same age.

Sigh.

On this particular day, she was clutching the crisp new fifty-dollar bill that Cousin Ruth had given her.

In a bright, pink ‘puppy-wishing-you-a-yappy-birthday’ card.

Apparently, the girl was rich.

What was more important, she had enough funds for the new video game she had been begging mom for for the past five months.

Remember the sliding-off-the-roof virtual reality debacle of July?

Yeah, that game.

Back to Sally . . .

“I’m going shopping!” She disappeared into the hall.

Now normally, I would just let her go. It is Sally and one has to be cautious in her presence. But, for some reason, I followed her.

She dashed down the stairs and into the kitchen.

There is a large hutch in our kitchen. Old. Wooden. Belonged to some ancestor.

And atop this hutch sits Sally’s treasure box. Where she keeps all her valuables.

Which, mostly were only valuable to her.

It was here that I found her.

Clinging to the base as she scaled the side.

“Sally! Use a chair!”

My plea fell on deaf ears.

“Takes too long!” Sally grunted as she hitched herself higher. “I’m almost there!”

True. Her hand was within touching distance of her treasure chest.

It was also within touching distance of something else entirely.

Our sleeping cats.

Oh yeah. We got two cats. Remind me to tell you about that. Another red-letter day in our household.

Back to my story . . .

And Mom’s antique serving platter. The one that matched the dinner set bequeathed her by a well-meaning, but sadly ignorant grandmother.

I know you can see this just as clearly as I can, but allow me to reiterate: Tall hutch. Climbing girl. Sleeping cats.

Dinner platter.

All within the same sphere.

Oy.

Things happened pretty fast.

“Got it!” Sally cried, just as she lost her tenuous grip on the edge of the hutch. And her reaching fingers grabbed the tail of one of the cats as she felt herself going.

Picture it.

Girl falling.

Cat reacting.

Things not conducive to dropping raining down in a cascade.

And Mom arriving in her patented what-did-I-just-miss technique.

She gaped at the mess.

And the girl sitting in the midst of it.

At first, she failed to realize the significance of what she was seeing. “It looks as though Godzilla has just been through here!” she said. Then she saw the platter. The formerly pristine in-one-piece platter.

No longer pristine.

Or in one piece.

I know you’ve heard about how angry hornets can get.

Well, they learned from Mom.

Her face got red. Her mouth opened.

Silently, Sally handed her the fifty-dollar bill. And her treasure box.

Mom just stared at the money in her hand. Then her eyes narrowed. “Let’s go shopping!” she said unexpectedly.

Both Sally and I stared at her.

“What are we buying?” I asked. "Another platter?"

Mom shook her head, her eyes still on Sally. “Nope. Something we could really use. Chains.”

All righty then.

 Each month, 
x

Each month, Karen of Baking in a Tornado issues a challenge--and a few words--to each of her followers/friends.
This month, my words: chains ~ sleeping cats ~ Godzilla ~ hornet ~ $75
came via Karen from my friend at Cognitive Script!

Links to the other “Use Your Words” posts:

Baking In A Tornado

theblogging911.com/blog

Cognitive Script 

Southern Belle Charm  

The Bergham Chronicles     

The Crazy Mama Llama

Part-time Working Hockey Mom  

Climaxed

Follow Me Home   

Brother of a Joke

The year was 1922,

Nineteen years. A grown man, true.

Australia. Armed with book, not sword,

Expecting naught of fame. Reward.

To serve the land and serve the Lord.

On April 1, a telegram,

Sent to him from Pa and Mam,

“Great news!” it chortled. Not a joke,

(Cause you can trust your hometown folk!)

A baby brother had ‘awoke’.

He laughed and tossed the note aside,

Oh, what a joke, he then decried,

His Pa got better every year,

(With telltale grin from ear to ear.)

At making jokes his new career,

When he got home a few months hence,

And walked along the airport fence,

To greet his kin of cow and corn,

(That beautiful and sunny morn.)

He found a brother had been born!

He stopped and stared, then stared again,

His siblings now did number 10!

A crowd, a herd, a ‘not-a-few’,

(Yes, one more lad, they had accrued.)

His Pa just laughed at jaw askew.

He said, “My son, this Joke’s on you!”

Each month a tale, a 'tour de farce'

With wit that's plentiful or sparse,

All on a theme so fun. And new.

So tell me. How well did we do?

Karen of Baking In A Tornado: The Joke’s on You

Dawn of Cognitive Script: Joker’s Wild

Lydia of Cluttered Genius: Stuck on You

Almost Home

I looked at the clock for the umpteenth time as I stuffed the margarine back into the fridge.

“What time did you say . . .?”

“Two o’clock!” Mom sounded a bit exasperated. I didn’t blame her. I must have asked the same question five times in the past five minutes.

I glanced at the clock again.

Mom sighed. “I can’t quite believe two weeks is already over.”

I didn’t, either. It had been a blissful two weeks. Quiet conversations. Quiet dinners. Quiet . . . everything.

Okay, I had to admit it to myself, it had been too quiet. Yep. I missed my sister.

Oh, I had tried to talk myself out of it. I mean, who misses broken tubs. Lost money. Manipulated PVR headsets. Kidnapped cats. Disgruntled neighbours.

Headlines.

Well, I guess . . . me.

I glanced at the clock again. Five minutes to go.

Mom sighed once more.

Both of us straightened as the sound of squealing tires came clearly from the front yard.

She frowned and looked at the clock as we got to our feet. “Already?”

We started toward the door, but had only taken a step or two when it was flung open. Sally, immediately followed by Cousin Ruth, darted inside and slammed it shut.

Both of them gave us a brief smile of welcome before hurrying past us to the front window. “Pretty narrow margin,” Cousin Ruth muttered. Sally nodded, her smile evaporating.

Mom and I looked at each other. Mom had an eyebrow up.

Uh-oh . . .

Parting the curtains slightly, Sally and Cousin Ruth peered outside.

Mom and I moved hesitantly toward them.

Just then a police car, lights and siren blazing, blew past.

Sally and Cousin Ruth kept staring for a couple of seconds after it had disappeared down the street. Then Sally turned to us. “If anyone asks,” she said, “we’ve been here all day.”

Each month, Karen of Baking in a Tornado issues a challenge--and a few words--to each of her followers/friends.

My words this month were:

margin ~ margarine ~ money ~ manipulate

And were given to me by none other than my amazing friend and personal Chef-I-Wish, Karen. https://Bakinginatornado.com   

Thank you, Karen! This is SUCH fun!

Visit our other friends to continue the fun!      

Baking in a Tornado

The Blogging 911 
Cognitive Script
Southern Belle Charm
The Bergham Chronicles  
Climaxed 
Part-time Working Hockey Mom 
Follow me home